


You Found My Breaking Point, Congratulations

by callmedok



Series: Waiting For The Night To Fall [1]
Category: Brütal Legend
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Betrayal, Blood and Injury, Character Study, Character Undeath, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Undead, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-01-07 12:25:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18410603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmedok/pseuds/callmedok
Summary: The story of a man, a woman, an undead man, and the many corpses of Ironheade. Or;Kill Master is left for dead in Doom territory, and for once there's something the Drowning Doom are better at than their living counterparts: compassion. The fact that he ends up head over heels for the Queen and General is just icing on the cake.





	1. Out Of My Element (I Can't Breathe)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Drowning In You, Drowning In Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17104319) by [sonicsora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonicsora/pseuds/sonicsora). 



> I FINALLY feel ready to post a thing that me and Sora have been yelling about since October of last year. Who knew a one-off goof inside the game could spawn something like this. I'm linking her fic, cause tbh now we're just bouncing off each other and going two different directions.
> 
> Main fic title comes from Heel Turn 2 by the Mountain Goats, and chapter title is from How to Embrace a Swamp Creature by the same band. Also, yes I did indeed quote Siken, it just fit really well for where this sad heal bastard is coming from.

[…] _He wants to be tender_

 _and merciful._ That sounds overly valorous.

_Sounds like penance. And his hands?_

His hands keep turning into birds and

flying away from him. _Him being you._

Yes. _Do you love yourself?_ I don’t have to

answer that. _It should matter._ He has a

body but it doesn’t matter, clean sheets

on the bed but it doesn’t matter. _This is_

_where he trots out his sadness. Little black_

_cloud, little black umbrella._ You miss

the point: the face in the mirror is a pale

and naked hostage and no one can tell

which room he’s being held in. _He wants_

_in, he wants out, he wants the antidote._

_He stands in front of the mirror with a net,_

_hoping to catch something._

-Richard Siken, Unfinished Duet, Lines 14-31

*

He doesn’t remember much of the accident, but the dreams that are stuck on an endless loop afterwards, circling like carrion birds around a carcass, they tell him enough. Enough to have something else start waking him up at night again with a breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding behind his ribs like a galloping raptor elk. These days he can’t even curl protectively in on himself though, can’t shake off the pervasive chill even under all the furs his caretakers have piled on top of him.

Within the dreams there’s the graveyard with dead rose bushes near the edge, a rough stone fence before the steep drop-off. The harsh light of day turns the fog into something closer to smoke, like the plains burning or a camp going up in flames after the Coil came along, and the sight of it left his stomach twisting, churning from where he was lingering near the ruined road on his bike. Taking a drag off a cigarette almost nervously, finding grasping hands and unnatural tendrils in the fog stirred up by the faint breeze that carried only the scent of rot and decay.

The smell of burial dirt, thick and rich and _heavy_ in a way the plains never were, would be enough to choke on by itself. Anywhere else in Doom, it’d simply be musty, an echo of death tracing its finger lightly along your cheek as it murmured sweet nothings about how you’d die alone here, always so terribly alone.

In the dreams, that unsettling echo is damn near screaming in his ears, hammering it into his head that he’s going to die, he’s going to die buried alive because nothing living can last in this place for long, can last with the stark reminder of their own mortality shoved down their throat day in and day out-

There’s a shout to his left, Eddie’s shout, and he’s gotten used to turning towards it. Gotten used to following again, swallowing down his doubts and stifling any protest the same way weeds choked out a garden, with barely any thought or effort. He’s had over twenty years of practice, so what’s one more day spent in the name of becoming stone?

What’s one more day at war, already ten times his age with the last three months heavy on his shoulders.  What’s one more day spent barreling head-first into the past, every moment in these damned lands another wound scraped open, another night spent shaking.

When he finally turns, that’s when things go to hell. That’s the moment where his fingers go clumsy, cigarette slipping from between them and the cherry of it hisses against the damp dirt. There’s a faint ringing in his ears that he can’t shake, stuck in place until one of the Headbangers pushes past him, and that’s enough to snap him into motion. His grip is white-knuckled at his handlebars, the weight of his bass at his back is like a boulder instead, and not even the yells of the Headbangers, the challenging cries of the Razor Girls, settle his nerves.

(The sound of a Reaper steed isn’t too different from a raptor elk at this distance, one of the Gravediggers still wears the tattered remains of something so achingly familiar it hurts, and he has to turn away as Eddie brings his axe down on that one because otherwise he might just scream-)

He drives, engine roaring, bass line spilling from his speakers in a riot of noise as he weaves through the undead, trying to stick near Ironheade folks best as he can. The joy of a first breath, the first brush of summer’s warmth against your skin, how it felt to run into the surf is all that’s wrapped up in the bass line, in healing. It was a celebration of life, felt like the only breath of fresh air in this dark pit, but in the dreams-

In the dreams it’s distorted with feedback, something twisted and thorny as Devil’s Thorns. Something squealing and mangled and broken, a sharp reminder that things will never be the same again.

Even in real life, the bass line does nothing to settle his nerve either. Sends them into overdrive as the healing brushes past the Doom and there’s rot in his mouth, tar clinging to his skin, the roar of the Sea threatening to crash down on him if he’s too close. Living things aren’t meant to go amongst the dead, and this was simply proof as to why.

That skin-crawling moment is just enough to divert his attention though, as he tries to swing wide out of the range of a Bride’s lighting strike. Enough for him to not see the Headbanger separated from his crew, up until the poor bastard is staring at him like a raptor elk in headlights and-

Well, he’s never made the best decisions has he, gritting his teeth as he roughly swerves again to avoid the man. Not able to do a damn thing to get his bike back under control when there’s a sickening crunching noise from somewhere underneath it and the smell of gas burns his nose, compounds with the rot in a way that makes him want to retch-

His brakes squeal in protest as he desperately yanks at them, panic squeezing his heart into a pulp, and there’s a cry of “Kill Master!” from behind him even as his brakes won’t fucking _work_ and all he can see is dead rosebushes, cracked stone, and that horrible ash-colored sky-

The one thing on his mind, past the screeches of metal and the bone-snapping sound of ruined stone as he barrels through the fence, is _I want to go home_.

His life doesn’t flash before his eyes in that horrible stomach-dropping moment of weightlessness before gravity kicks in. All the regrets carved into his bones don’t rear their heads for one last scream about how fucking worthless he was, how he’d even managed to fuck up his own death by blindly following another Rebellion. There’s just a desperation to feel sunlight on his skin one last time, a gnawing desire to hear the wind on the plains, it’s the closest he’s had to home in years-

The moment before he comes crashing down, dark rock staring him right in the face, he doesn’t remember. Won’t ever remember besides the way his heart was pounding in his chest like an engine as he tumbled off his bike, the audible _crack_ when he hit the ledge and everything went black for a moment that felt like a second, for a moment that felt like eternity.

He could have joined Death in that moment, would have gone willingly had the bastard actually shown. But instead he lay on that ledge, something living and something dead, both and neither all at once as things were in flux.

In the dreams, no one comes to save him. No one hears his jagged breaths, the shaky cries of pain when he tries to move. No one cares enough to look over the edge, to even see if he’s truly dead. Left to flounder on the ledge like a fish on dry land, lungs filling up with blood and the darkness creeping in, dragging him under-

In reality though, there’s blood in his mouth, on his teeth from them digging into his lips after impact. There’s still jagged breaths accompanied by a stabbing pain, right wrist crumpling like scrap when he tries to brace his hand against the ground, and even the briefest movement has him losing time. A flicker here, a flicker there, and it isn’t the kind of darkness paired with passing out. It’s like waking up only to fall asleep again, a constant loop that can’t be broken until your body either gives in or rises against it, and-

The skittering noise comes from above, from the edge, and his vision is blurry, fractured through the remains of his aviators, and it’s a long shot but maybe, maybe-

“H͍̱̖͎̘e̸̜̥̰͍͕͍̙̦͡͞l̶̺̯p m̸̹͟e͘, p̨̳̥̺͉̝l̮̗̟̖̙̱͜͡e̶̗̘̦̮͜͝a̴̶̹̠̪̺͔̹̫͇͠ṣ̸͚e̦̫̫͉̠͔,” he manages to choke out, and getting the chittering to sound right means the pounding in his head gets worse, means his teeth tug away from his lip and leave only more blood, but-

Something, _someone_ chitters back, and the huff of a laugh isn’t worth it for how it scrapes against his ribs, how it lets more blood slip down his throat. But with the darkness surging up again, feeling like the world is dropping out from under him, he’ll take whatever luck he can get. Accept whatever kindness-

There’s the crack of stone once, twice, thrice, and-

Chittering that’s too watery, too muddy so it’s almost like someone slurring their words, and his sight’s starting to go black around the edges but it’s hard not to look at the fogged-over eyes, hard not to feel panic rising in his chest at the sight of blue-black tendrils-

The walking head with gray-blue skin simply stares, and raises up a tendril as if to strike-

The expected blow never comes, and he doesn’t witness how it rears back in alarm after he passes out. Doesn’t hear its alarmed chirrup of some kind, or how it proceeds to skitter back up the rocks using the footholds it had made. Doesn’t see the woman in white it tugs over to the edge, chittering a mile a minute to her, or the other mobile head that totters along beside them.

Doesn’t hear the woman’s sharp declaration of “I accept your bet, Janet,” as she gently removes his aviators once he’s been brought up from the ledge, and gestures for the two heads to handle her new patient carefully.

(It’s been far too long since someone had asked for their help, and who were they to refuse such a desperate cry?)


	2. A Dead One's Breath (The Casket Lid Is Cold)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kill Master drifts and dreams. Sometimes, dead is better.
> 
> Chapter title comes from Body and Blood by Ghost.

He drifts.

_¿ɐǝpᴉ pooƃ ɐ sᴉ sᴉɥʇ ʞuᴉɥʇ ʎlʇsǝuoɥ noʎ op 'ƃuᴉlɹɐp_

Something cool and smooth presses against his forehead, brushes back hair stuck to clammy skin. Sounds are distant, distorted, things he can barely stitch together through the haze.

He tries to move.

All that happens is his fingers twitch slightly, barely a flicker of movement.

_˙ɯᴉɥ dlǝɥ ʇ’uplnoɔ I ʇǝq ʇǝuɐſ_  

Distantly his arm is moved, something he knows in the same fuzzy way someone knows when they’re dreaming. His head feels like its swaddled in furs, hearing muffled as if he’s underwater, and his body doesn’t feel like his own.

Skin too tight, not tight enough, fuzzy feeling like he’s wrapped in furs, pins and needles as there’s nothing at all-

_…ʇsǝɹɐǝp 'ɐɯ∀_

Something wraps around his wrist, just this side of too tight as a broken noise is forced out of him when the dull burst of pain hits, and the wrapping… loosens almost immediately. Something cool and smooth wraps around his arm, further down from the pain, and it’s gentle, light. It’s the kindest thing he’s felt in-

Hours, days, months, years even? Time is fluid here, in the darkness.

_˙ɯᴉɥ ƃuᴉdǝǝʞ ǝɹ’ǝM_

The smell of flowers isn’t cloying, still sticks to everything anyways, not the usual thickness of cigarette smoke, and some part of him wonders that if he forced his eyes open would there be blue sky again, the comfort of the plains-

He drifts.

Tugged back down into the velvety embrace of something, eyes too heavy, body too heavy. A constant bitterness in the back of his throat, on his tongue, thick in a way that makes him want to swallow but he can’t. That uncomfortable sweaty feeling of hair pressed against the back of his neck, the way it usually felt when he overslept and it was too warm-

(Sun on his skin, the gentle press of burned fingertips to his heart, a scrap of a laugh he can’t remember, and he wantswants _wants_ with a desire that burns, leaves him breathless because the things he’d fucking do for one more fucking second in that damned jungle again-)`

Something is shoved between his ribs, and he _screams._ Bitter taste still coating his mouth, flowers in his nose, and the scream is the most coherent he’s been in days, months, years.

The most coherent as he finally forces his eyes open, eyes bleary, vision blurry through tears as he tries to- tries to focus, force things to slot into place with a scrabbling desperation he hasn’t felt in years. Trying to make sense of this something that sweeps over him in a wave, undercurrent dragging him deeper, deeper as he tries to breath but it’s never enough, never deep enough as he cries from the pain and the pain worsens as he cries in a loop of agony, as he’s just some hiccuping sobbing mass of meat and bone with such a sense of wrongness in him that it’s impossible to shake-

_˙sqᴉɹ ɹnoʎ ƃuᴉʞɔǝɥɔ ʇsnɾ ɯ’I_

says this, this thing with a halo of ash behind its head, a skeletal face and foggy eyes that makes his heart pound desperately behind his ribs. Whatever sound he makes in reply is blubbering, wet and agonized, more animal than man as he tries to get away, get away from this undead monster in white-

The second he tries to push off of whatever’s under him his right wrist crumples in white-hot pain, bandages doing nothing to support it. His breathing turns short and desperate between tears as everything is slipping away from him, as black creeps in around the edges, and he can’t help the cry of terror that escapes as a tendril of blue-black hair shoots forward, that fucking _head_ finally come back to kill him-

It wraps around his side carefully, so horribly gently catches him before he can fall back to the furs, and he can’t stop crying. Can’t stop as he goes light-headed, as everything feels too big and too small at once, as he feels like he could crawl out of his own skin as that monster steps closer, reaches out for him again and he can’t move. Can’t move as a soft cool hand presses against his side, and despite everything it feels like a balm instead against his skin, is something he nearly leans into before the tendril stops him.

His body isn’t his own, and he hates it. Hates these monsters keeping him here, hates his body for failing him, hates himself for being this weak craven little thing who just wants to go home, he wants to go home-

He drifts when the haze of pain can’t cut through the darkness anymore.

Drifts after his breath rattled against his teeth in watery wheezes rather than sobs, eyes rolled back because the body was still trying desperately to protect itself from horrors. The darkness surges up as a river would break its banks, and he’s dragged under almost gratefully.

He drifts.

He drifts, and briefly-

Briefly he dreams. Dreams of a time before the bitterness was heavy on his tongue, before there was pain, before he was broken and pathetic, before Ironheade came along crooning sweet nothings of revenge-

A memory of cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air, a hazy cloud that’s close to choking. There’s flowers underneath it though, and it’s- sickening, disorienting, and he’s fumbling blindly through it all. Fumbling towards the arc of healer’s couches, to the darkly dressed figure sprawled almost lazily in the middle one.

In the haze, the figure almost looks like a spider with long spindly limbs falling where they may. Mourning colors, blacks and grays, act as a poor replacement for a metal spider’s shell. Dark hair spills down their shoulders, blending them into the shadows, and when they look up there’s dried blood down their chin, dried blackness that looks flat in the strange light-

“Oh, _Lem_ ,” the previous head healer says, voice so heart-breakingly smooth, vowels rolling like marbles off the man’s tongue. So unnaturally still, sprawled into an odd shape, and all Kill Master can hear behind it is the coughing, the wet ragged rasp that was the last time he heard his name in that way-

“I taught you better than this, kid,” the other man begins, tone sickeningly gentle even as the words cut like shattered glass. Their eyes can’t even meet with nothing but open graves there, empty pits. Lem manages to get out a weak “Uncle, Uncle Dia-” as he’s rooted to the ground, heart squeezing in his chest and breathe catching on sharp edges.

“You shoulda listened to your gut. I’ve told you that once, more than once, didn’t I?” Diarmuid continues as if he never spoke at all, head tilting farther than natural in thought, hair like spilled ink as it brushes past the dead man’s face.

There’s no gray in Diarmuid’s hair. There will never be any gray in his hair, and the thought hits Lem like the sharp crack as he hit the ledge, the same way a scream ripped out of his throat-

There are things in here with them. More shapes moving through the haze in strange, jerky motions. Skittering even, and there’s that chittering again. That horrible muddy chittering, where it almost sounds like water instead. Too sibilant to be right, waves lapping at your feet, and he feels so achingly alone as a creature pinned into place. Pinned into place as if the spiders will descend, and crack him open for their hatchlings.

“Stop digging your hole, unless you want to drown. River goes where it always flows, and you ain’t a rock, Lem. You’re a corpse as-is.” Diamuid says simply, bluntly as he ever would when Lem was a fool, and it hurts, it hurthurts _hurts_ in the way of spider fangs sinking into his arm, bass strings leaving his palms bloody as they snapped, that wet-hollow-ache as he cried himself sick, clutching a bowler hat as if it’d bring back the dead and knuckles bloodied-

Hands harshly pulling at his face, fingers crooked and clawed and digging into him like clay, leathery and papery and something slick and black against his skin and he hears the Sea, smells rot and smoke and flowers in some horrific mix as his mouth is forced open, as something bitter and thick goes down his throat and-

“Q̮͍̪̮̜͔u̬i͉̜̻̜͔̳̤̕e͍͙͔t̮̦͔͚͉̦ͅ,̳ ̵d̛̠̼͕a̞̞r͍̺̦̥̣̳͚l͏͓̣̳͍̖ͅi͍̗̬̹̘̱̤n͓͈̦͈͉͚͙g̠̼̥̪̻̖,̷̝̖͍̥͈̳ ̴̘͉̩͈͖͓i͖͈̦̠̞͓͜t̯͖̥̫’͏͔͕l̴̦̦̫l ̰̝a̩̜̯̦͡l͉̘̖̬͠l̲̬͜ ̖̲̻͝b̻̜̼̯ͅe̶̫̤̗͓͎̪̗ ̧̝̲̲̙͙a̘l͖͍̫͍̞͎r̜̤̭͕̻̤̬͠i̯g̖͎͚h̲̳̹t,̼̪̜͍ ̘̘̰͚̜̹y̝͎̯͍̼̭͘ͅo̪͈̝̳̳̩u̟̻’l̸͔̲l̴̥͉̲ͅ ̗̻͘ͅb͚e̳͙̕ͅ ͍͇̭͈̳f͈ͅi̵͕̮n̻̫̗ͅͅȩ,̼̲ ̴̤̥̤̜̖͔y̡͔͉̠͍̞͚o͔̥̺̯u͓̥ ̮͕͕̣͓̬po̭̦̫̙͍͉͔͠or͔̟͎͉̩̣ ̲̣͖͖̦͎t̝̭̲͕͉̻̺h̘̲i̙n̳̰͙͇̖͖g̜̻͚̖̦,̞̻̤͍̦̖”

Diarmuid croons with black blood spilling from his mouth like a river, eye sockets gaping and empty this close and voice still so horribly fucking gentle and vowels like polished stone even as his fingers dig deep furrows into Lem’s face and he can’t scream-

He’s choking, coughing, something warm and wet and thick and bitter spilling down his chin, a wet gurgle he can’t help with the pain hammering into him again because its pain or pain, death or dying, and he’s never had a choice when it came to this, never a choice because if he fell then what remained, if he broke what would be left behind-

Cold hands are still at his face, and he bites down at whatever’s near his mouth, bites down on leather that refuses to give, and-

_- **op** noʎ pᴉp ʇɐɥʍ 'op noʎ pᴉp ʇɐɥʍ 'ɐᴉlɥɐp _

_-ƃuᴉɥʇʎuɐ op ʇ’upᴉp I 'sᴉ ʇᴉ llɐ s’ʇɐɥʇ 'uoos ooʇ dn ǝʞoʍ ǝH_

He tries to twist, tries to get away from all this, and all it does is make something stab through him again, something sharp and jagged and he fucking keens like a wounded animal, black flickering around at the edges of his vision again. The blue-black tendrils come back and wrap around him, hold him in place, and he can’t even try to kick it away, can’t when there’s no point in thrashing anyways-

Pain swallows him down and chews him up, putting him through the wringer until he’s all washed up, until he’s forced down.

He drifts.


	3. In Disarray You Ponder Your Soul Malaise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lem finally wakes up, and meets the Bride who helped him.  
> It's a strange day.
> 
> Chapter title comes from Depth of Satan's Eyes by Ghost.

When Lem finally surfaces it’s to that odd cool and smooth sensation again brushing against his forehead, trailing down his cheek. Eyes gummed shut and too heavy to lift, body too weighed down with something he can’t grasp, the most he can do is make some low annoyed sound. It feels like it takes years to reach up with his left hand and bat at whatever it is clumsily, awkward as a raptor elk foal finding its feet. Hair’s plastered to the back of his neck, his back, and there’s that gross trapped heat feeling of being in bed for too long, that itchiness of sweat.

If his fucking students need help they can fuck right off for the moment with a low-level ache buzzing through his bones, mouth dry as the desert with a bitter aftertaste coating the back of it. Either he was too shit-faced last night to do a damned thing to help himself, or not drunk enough and he got socked in the face anyways with the aftermath, they can leave him to his misery-

Then there’s a bell-like laugh, and that’s, that’s not right. No hairspray for it to be a Razor Girl, too close for it to be someone outside his room, who in the absolute hell brought in flowers-

“You’re awake, splendid! We weren’t quite sure if you ever would, truth be told, I hope it’s not too bold to say that,” the woman says, and even then he’s loosely guessing with the sound of her laugh, the way ‘splendid’ rolls around her mouth. Delighted, absolutely charmed, and it’s been a long time since someone was charmed by him, since he was someone worth being delighted over.

The last time he ever heard someone even be _remotely_ interested in him, in what he did, it was Eddie, and-

Well.

Look how that fucking turned out, as memories of snow and ice and muggy jungle heat begin to trickle in. Memories of running, always constantly running, because there was no other choice, every choice ripped right from his hands-

“Wh-where am I?” Lem manages to choke out past the dryness, rubbing at his eyes with his already-free hand hard enough to see some afterimages. Darkness specked flickering blue-purple, little sparks of light, but it’s enough at least to loosen whatever gunk is in the way. His voice sounds rough, scratchy like he’s been screaming, the kind of thing that happened when he woke up from nightmares and ripped through an entire pack of cigarettes because he needed something to occupy his hands, help him smother words he couldn’t say-

He tries to move his right arm, and there’s a dragging sound. A rasping one of something rough tugged against the tanned underside of furs, catching on the soft blankets under him, and a cool bit of trepidation hollows out his chest, hits him like a punch to the face.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes anymore, but he has to, he _has_ to-

His left hand still feels awkward and clumsy as he pats himself down shakily, _faceneckshoulderchest_ like a child’s song, like some kind of sick game looking for wounds even as he finds nothing, even as the world is blurry with dim light. Out of the corner of his eye he sees white but that doesn’t matter, blue-black and grayish-blue but that doesn’t matter.

She’s saying something, the woman, a ripple of probably fabric over her face, but there’s a ringing in his ears again as his right arm is too heavy, as his heart starts to gear up for a veritable gallop as the threat of bile rises up in his throat, fingers curling under the edge of the dark fur finally before pulling it away-

A splint, wood parts dark and gnarled, bandages a muddy gray. Shakily done as if by someone who’s only ever gotten a rough idea of what one is, but his coloring isn’t fucked, the wrapping’s not too shabby but still. The sight of his arm, one of his fucking hands like this, the only thought hammering in the back of his head is _uselessuseless **useless**._

What use is a bassist who can’t play, what good is a healer who can’t heal, if they can do this much why didn’t they snag one of his students, why is he still like this-

“-ear, are you alright? We don’t want you getting too light headed, you’ve passed out once already.” She asks so sweetly, says so kindly that something in him twists. There’s that damned prickle of tears that he tries to scrub away angrily, frustrated with himself, with his own situation, and the kindness just makes it worse.

“N-no, I’m not, I’m-” Lem’s laugh is strained, broken. “I’m really not.”

The hand she rests on his uninjured arm is bone picked clean, turned yellow by the candlelight, and it’s the sweetest fucking gesture he’s had in years. It’s the kindest touch he’s had in months without some kind of praise attached, some half-hearted intimacy that shattered after they were through.

His breath is starting to come out in rough grasping breaths as apprehension creeps its way in at the sight of yellowed bone, low-level ache starting to grow and grow as it feels like he’s drowning, as fear callously carves into his chest-

Lem’s eyes follow the bone up, up to the ragged sleeve of a stained wedding dress, fabric gauzy and light. Follows it up, up along the frilly collar with impossibly small buttons tight against her throat, stark next to gray-blue skin, and there’s the shine of bone where a rounded cheek should be, the flash of exposed teeth so unsettling next to the purple of her lips. Her veil has been thrown back carelessly against dark hair, and she smells like flowers, like something sweet with an undercurrent of rot, and-

The Bride smiles.

She smiles as their eyes meet, soft brown meeting his own blue, and it’s so fucking horribly human that it makes his heart ache a little as he looks away with tears in his eyes still, damned heart pounding in his ears already and him biting his bottom lip because if he screams that’s as good as throwing his life away. Even if he’s terrified, grip going white-knuckled in the dark fur at his waist, distantly wondering what the hell this whole thing is as his nerves scream at him that he can’t think of this as something permanent, can’t treat it as something real-

(Everything came with a price, blood on hands and graves that had to be dug _,_ and this time there’s no one to pay it but him, nothing more to be ripped from him besides flesh and blood and soul, what will they _want_ -)

“That’s alright, dear,” she says, skeletal hand squeezing his arm lightly, and it’s this smooth calm tone that burrows right between his ribs, leaves a dull ache as a haze of pain ebbs and flows through him with every shallow breath . “It takes time to heal, especially after what you’ve been through. Take all that you need, you can rest,” she continues, smile soft and eyes sweet, touch gentle even as it’s freezing, and he can’t explain why it makes him want to cry as he tries to breath deeper to calm himself, why it’s so shaking when he barely knows her at all.

Bone is cool against his arm, there’s the sticky feeling of tar creeping over where she’s touching and yet there’s a thread of warmth nestling in his chest. Something fragile as glass is making its home in there despite the fact it feels like its caving in, and whatever it is will break, it has to break because there’s no room in him for something like that, not here among the dead-

“You can rest,” she repeats, no louder than wind running over grass, the soft susurrus as it rippled like waves in the summer, and he tries to suck in a sharp deep breath. All he gets for that is a stabbing pain right into an exposed underbelly, ribs turned into a spiked vice that clamps down on his lungs. Kindness followed by pain is enough  of a contrast that he bites back a cry of pain, deep enough and lip raw enough that all he can taste is the copper sickness of blood, tears spilling freely now.

Damn near weeping as she shushes him gently, leaning just enough so his head can rest against her side, and Lem manages a rasping, wheezing “Why-why do you care?” in between muffling his pain, trying to keep whatever shreds of himself he can in one piece. Flowers, rot, a mustiness lingering to the fabric, and all he can think of is mourning colors, dried blue flowers left behind, and the cloying smell of a graveyard before things all went to hell-

“Because someone has to,” she says kindly, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, and it’s a very long time until the tears stop.

(The Bride calls herself Ama, _‘Short for Amaryllis,’_ added with a slight smile, bone fingers clicking against the exposed curve of her cheek in thought. Sometimes it’s like she drifts away on them though, caught in the current until a taller Bride with a braid sloping down the side of her head swept in with that lingering scent of apparently lavender and drew her away with a soft _‘Come home, dearest, come home.’_ Every time he looks away, because it’s not something meant for him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Ama comes from one of my Brütal Legend zine submissions, where a Bride was comforted by Kill Master. I keep around my OCs for a _while_ in writing land, and it means I have something to lean on for fleshing out the Doom.


	4. And There In The Still (All You Feel Is Tranquility)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lem's previous understanding of the Doom crumbles, piece by piece, and Ironheade is briefly thought of. He also gets a new friend.
> 
> Chapter title comes from the Ghost cover of "Waiting For The Night."

Daphne sweeps into his life with a halo of ash gray corkscrewing curls framing her unpainted umber face, eyes still clouded in death, and the bitter tea that’s the rough way they’ve been killing his pain.

She wears lace at her throat rather than some high collar, thin gray gloves that slip under tightly buttoned sleeves, and there’s a small silver rose brooch pinned over where her heart should roughly be. Unlike Ama who’s so clearly one of the Doom with the blue-gray skin and purple lips, the only way you can tell with Daphne besides her eyes is the way the light catches her sometimes. A hint of a deep purple undertone rears its head, just enough for a creeping thought of _this isn’t right, this isn’t right_ to brush against the senses.

When she smiles, she has dimples. Her touch is the lightest and most careful checking over his ribs, adjusting the wrapping at his wrist, his leg.

(The leg injury had provoked more dull surprise than anything else when it was brought up by Ama, because of course. Of course his right hand was fucked up, his left leg and a few ribs on that side cracked out of place. How else could things get worse?)

Daphne always checks him over on her shift, even if there’s no rhyme or reason for how the Brides drift through. He falls asleep to Ama daydreaming, and wakes up to Daphne settling in the rickety wooden chair beside him. Falls asleep to Daphne mending a Brood doll with small tidy stitches, and wakes up to another Bride whose name he still hasn’t gotten. Sometimes there are knocks at the door and muffled conversations that spur the switch-offs, other times it’s as simple as someone leaving and another stepping in.

She was the first face he saw though, blurrily as it was, in this new life of his. She laughs a bit shyly, hand drifting up to hide her mouth when he manages a tired mumble of “Where-where’s your skull,”, and it’s easy, carefree. Something utterly alien than the rasp he expected, or a death rattle. Every second in their care something new about the Doom was revealed, and challenged everything he’d clung to as fact.

“Stage battles, darling, you know how that goes,” she teases, resting her chin on an upturned gloved hand, and he manages a noncommittal grunt in reply that doesn’t rattle things around too much. This time when she laughs it’s free and light, and she pats him on the shoulder gently, says kindly “We like the anonymity of veils, it makes things so much easier. Now drink your tea, I’ve seen you wincing.”

She has to help raise the chipped cup to his lips, but as long it works, that’s what matters. Not the shakiness of his own hand, or the unnatural stillness of hers. The Brides offer him kindness in a strange and unsettling time, and he’ll take what he can get. Hard to ask whatever they want of him if he’s still broken, and if he can run-

Ormagöden’s fire, if he can fucking _crawl_ he’ll make his way out of here, and figure out where Ironheade is. Not like things would change much, if that was how he returned to them. He’d still be adrift, alone in a crowd of people as he lived day to day. Choking on things he can’t say, because to doubt was to question, and to question meant being challenging and-

(No one knew what happened to Ophelia before she returned with the Doom, but the rumors never stopped about Lita or Eddie’s hands being unclean.)

The hours spent with Daphne are… still, and quiet. She patches her dress, the occasional Brood doll, herself on more than one worryingly occasion, and he more or less drifts. Consciousness is still a thing that comes and goes, even as she tries to draw him into conversation. Quiet talks about bandaging, splinting, and he wonders in an abstract fuzzy way who she once was with all of these things knocking about. Wonders if she once wore fringed jackets the russet red-brown color of clay, had bass calluses under her gloves, and used the old ways when her strings snapped.

It’s sickeningly easy to image her alongside his parents rushing into the fringes of battle, easy to slot her into Thunderhorn and have her sit almost daintily on one of the healer couches. Ankles crossed like she does on the chair beside him, a jacket over her knees that she sews patches onto rather than a tear on the hip of her dress. The mental image of her drinking whiskey out of a teacup gets stuck in the back of his head and all he can do is laugh weakly, try not to slump in relief when the mended Brood doll is pressed to his chest instead. Some of the aches go away with something to support his ribs as the laugh turns into a cough.

It’s surprisingly soft, for a critter he’s seen leave an arm nearly bitten in two.

Daphne shrugs when he asks why, an ambiguous ‘why’ with no clear answer as his left hand cradles the doll’s head. Says simply “They don’t need this one anymore, and I like keeping my hands busy,” as she works her way through fixing a button on some dark and stained coat. He doesn’t ask her to take the doll with her when she leaves, and the mysterious Bride who comes in after her doesn’t try to take it away.

The Brood doll looks like it’s had things spilled on it, splotches of tan and muddy brown that are either tea or dried blood. Black hair that feels like fur when his fingers curl into it, an empty mouth that’s been sewn shut with tight neat stitches, and white marble eyes that he can’t bring himself to touch. It has a black shirt, black pants, and he can feel where stitches were pulled out of the original fabric.

He calls it Callie because the name rolls off his tongue, and tells no one he did it.

(When something named is taken away, it hurts more than something that never was. After a lifetime of things being ripped away from him, he understands that much.)


End file.
